


Portrait of a Friend

by MagicaDraconia16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Bullying, Potterlock AU, but no-one gets hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-25 01:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12025128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: First-year Hufflepuff Greg Lestrade is being mercilessly bullied due to being - as they put it - aMudblood. Whilst hiding one day, he comes across the portrait of a student in Slytherin robes, and strikes up an unlikely - but very welcome - friendship.





	1. Year One

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was given in a facebook group. I have only the vaguest of ideas re future chapters (which likely won't be speedy in arriving), so more tags and increased rating may be given at an appropriate point.

Hearing footsteps thunder past the end of the corridor, Greg Lestrade buried his head further into the shelter of his arms and fervently hoped that they wouldn’t find him. He was curled in the shadows at the end of what was charitably called a corridor, but was really too short to actually be one, so if just one person turned their head, they’d easily spot him.

Miraculously, though, none of them did, and soon the sounds of their hoots and calls faded into silence as they vanished further into the castle. Greg breathed out a rather wet sigh of relief, and allowed himself to slump back against the wall.

He’d been so excited when a rather strict-looking woman had turned up at his house on his eleventh birthday and claimed that he could do magic. Incredulous, but excited.

Unfortunately, the very first people he’d met on the train on the first day of school had made it _very_ clear that they were not as excited to meet _him_ , and it appeared that they were from some very influential families.

He’d only been at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for three weeks, but Greg already wanted to go back home.

“Is there a reason that you’re disturbing my tranquillity?” asked a voice from behind him.

Still half on edge after running from his tormentors, Greg gave a yelp of fright, and scrambled away from the wall, spinning as he did so. Rather than somebody standing in the entrance to one of the secret passages that riddled Hogwarts – and that Greg could never seem to find nor enter – instead, the only thing that met his wide-eyed gaze was the blank stone wall, adorned by a painting about three-quarters of the way up.

“Wh-who’s there?” he attempted to demand, but the hitch in his voice betrayed him.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” the voice answered him. “And you are?”

Greg glanced around the alcove but still couldn’t see a place where someone could be hiding from him. “Um, Greg Lestrade,” he said, finally. “Where are you?”

“Here. Right in front of you,” the voice said. “Are you perhaps in need of eyeglasses?”

Looking straight ahead, the only thing visible was the painting.

Which had moved!

Greg yelped again, and flinched back, banging his head against the opposite wall.

The painting – an older boy dressed in black robes edged with the green of Slytherin – actually _rolled its eyes_ at him. “Haven’t you ever seen a wizard painting before?” it asked.

Greg frowned at the picture, even as he reached up to rub the back of his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t even know wizards _painted_ pictures.”

“You—” The painting paused, then frowned down its narrow nose at him. “You’re a Muggleborn,” it said, in tones of realisation.

“Is that a fancier way of saying _Mudblood_?” Greg asked, bitterly.

The young man raised painted eyebrows at him. “What on earth is a ‘mud blood’?” it asked.

Greg sighed, his shoulders slumping again. “Me, apparently,” he muttered.

“Oh, Merlin, don’t tell me that ridiculous fool of a student has actually managed to get his rhetoric _accepted_!” the painting groaned, closing its eyes and shaking its head.

“Huh?” Greg tilted his head, confused.

The portrait shook its head. “Never mind,” it said, waving a hand dismissively. “From your words, am I to assume that some of the other students have been harassing you over your prestigious parentage, or assumed lack thereof?”

Greg winced and lowered his eyes to study his knees. ‘Harassing’ was a nice way of putting it; his tormentors might have been purebloods, but some of them had no objections to hurting him ‘the Mudblood way’.

“Ah, I see,” the portrait murmured. It cleared its throat. “May I ask what House you were Sorted into?”

“Hufflepuff,” Greg said, although it took several attempts for the portrait to hear him. Hufflepuff was apparently known as the House of the ‘leftovers’ – just another thing for people to hold against him.

“Then you are tenacious, and extremely loyal,” said the portrait. It rubbed the bridge of its nose, clearly thinking. “I believe,” it said, eventually, looking up – or was that down? – at Greg again, “that I may be able to assist you, pigmented though I am. If you are amenable, of course?”

It took Greg a moment; he was clever, in his own way, but he was only eleven, and his home neighbourhood hadn’t exactly been a place that encouraged that sort of talk. “You mean you can help me?” he asked, perking up.

The portrait inclined its head, smiling. “Precisely,” it agreed. “If you would like to stand in front of me, with your side towards me, and hold up your wand…”

Greg scrambled to his feet and into position in front of the painting. “Sorry, what was your name again?” he asked.

“Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes,” the portrait told him.

“Good to meet you, Myc,” Greg said, and smiled as the portrait spluttered indignantly. It _was_ good to finally make a friend.


	2. Year Two

“No, no, no,” Mycroft tutted. “Swish, serpentine, _then_ flick.” He waved his own wand as he spoke, and the teapot that he’d conjured into his portrait turned rather neatly from a rose pink into a turquoise colour.

“Swish, serpentine, flick,” Greg muttered to himself, brandishing his wand as if it was one of the plastic swords he’d played with when he was little. “Swish, serpentine, flick.” He suited actions to words, and held his breath.

The teapot in front of him, one that he’d brought along with him, stubbornly remained a horrible lime green colour.

“Bollocks!” Greg said, crossly.

More tutting came from the portrait on the wall beside him. “Language, Gregory,” Mycroft scolded.

Greg scowled at his painted friend and slumped against the opposite wall. “I just don’t get it!” he complained. “I always do what Professor Switchley says, and yet _nothing_ ever works!”

Mycroft shook his head. “It beggars belief that that old goblin’s contract hasn’t expired yet,” he said.

“Who did you have?” Greg asked, curiously. Mycroft didn’t like speaking much about his life before his painting had awoken.

“Professor Switchley,” Mycroft said, and smirked as Greg’s mouth fell open in surprise. “I did state he was an _old_ goblin, didn’t I,” he added.

“But—” Greg paused. Mycroft couldn’t actually _do_ anything to him from in that portrait, but he _was_ perfectly capable of just walking off and not returning. “How long have you been in that portrait?” Greg finally asked, feeling a tad embarrassed over his long pause.

Mycroft looked up, as though expecting to find an answer on the top of his frame. “Since 1865,” he replied, eventually, lowering his gaze again.

Surprised, Greg blinked at him. The painted Mycroft was only seventeen. It just didn’t seem right that he was actually over one hundred. “Wow,” he mouthed.

Mycroft made a dismissive sound deep in his throat. “It means nothing,” he said, waving a hand. It happened to be the one holding his wand, and angry red sparks shot out of the tip, telling Greg that he wasn’t quite as matter-of-fact as he pretended. “Yes, well,” he said, glaring at his wand as if it had betrayed him – which it had – and the slightest hint of a blush appearing on his cheeks, “perhaps we should try some other charm, and see if that works any better.” And before Greg could say anything, Mycroft had stalked out of the painting.

*~*~*

“Here.”

The sound of Mycroft’s voice caused Greg to jump in surprise. He’d just been thinking that perhaps Mycroft was going to hide out in some other picture until Greg went away.

Instead, the painted figure seemed to be trying to pull something heavy and unwieldy into the painting with him. Eventually, with an oath that Greg instantly decided to remember for the next time Mycroft scolded him about his language, Mycroft disappeared out of the frame again.

He reappeared almost instantly, his arm firmly around a young girl around Greg's age dressed in an old fashioned blue milkmaid’s outfit. Greg was fairly certain she’d come from a portrait close to the Divination classroom, but he couldn’t think what kind of charm Mycroft wanted him to practice on _her_.

“Stand right there, if you please,” Mycroft said, halting the girl in the middle of his picture. She glanced at Mycroft, giggled, glanced at Greg, blushed, then looked back at Mycroft and giggled again. Greg rolled his eyes. _Girls!_ he thought, although he knew better than to say anything like that out loud.

“Now then,” continued Mycroft, stepping aside and turning so that he could see both the girl and Greg at the same time. “Have you gone over Cheering charms yet, Gregory?”

Greg scratched the back of his neck as he tried to remember all the charms Professor Switchley had droned on about. “Uh, yeah, I think so,” he muttered, eventually.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow dubiously at him. “Follow my wand movements,” he said with a sigh, and very slowly went through the motions for Greg. “Now, try it on Anastacia, here,” he said, once Greg had repeated it enough times to his satisfaction.

Obediently, Greg cast the spell. Anastacia giggled, but as she was still looking at Mycroft, Greg wasn’t entirely certain that it had been because of anything _he’d_ done.

It appeared that Mycroft had come to the same conclusion, as he hastily cleared his throat. “Thank you, Anastacia. Perhaps we should try again another day,” he said.

Greg shook his head as the girl giggled yet _again_ , blushed even more than she had done before – which was quite a feat – and ran past Mycroft out of the painting. “Yeah,” he agreed. “How about we try Transfiguration, instead . . . ?”


End file.
